


strength is a matter of perception

by AcheronSentinel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arm Wrestling, Gen, this is the first thing ive published on here eeek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcheronSentinel/pseuds/AcheronSentinel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric instinctively knew he’d made a mistake when he saw the slightly feral grin work itself across Iron Bull’s face. He should have known the mercenary (who was built like a brick shithouse, for lack of a better phrase) would take a confession of strength as a challenge, be it self-professed or not. An elf that could kick his ass? Even better, apparently!</p><p>Iron Bull challenges Fenris to a battle of the ages - of arm wrestling. It... doesn't quite go as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strength is a matter of perception

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post (http://tornadoofpwning.tumblr.com/post/104928254757/headcannon-that-iron-bull-and-fenris-one-day-meet) on tumblr! Basically, iron bull and fenris wind up arm wrestling, and fenris totally kicks his ass. Bull is strangely proud of it.

“… So there we were, in the asscrack of nowhere in some magister’s dirty old mansion – if the demons hadn’t ambushed us, the falling ceiling beams would have – and we’re surrounded by an _army_ of spirits. Corypheus himself would have turned tail and fled. And Fenris here marches straight through the middle of ‘em, grabs the magister by the neck, and throws him into the wall, just like that. He was out cold, and the entire demon swarm just disappeared. Seriously, Broody, how do you keep doing that? Then there was the time you hauled my drunken ass out of a bar under one arm…”

Varric instinctively knew he’d made a mistake when he saw the slightly feral grin work itself across Iron Bull’s face. He should have known the mercenary (who was built like a brick shithouse, for lack of a better phrase) would take a confession of strength as a challenge, be it self-professed or not. An _elf_ that could kick his ass? Even better, apparently! Varric wearily pinched the bridge of his nose, gaging Fenris’s reaction. He had to say, the fact that the elf had not backed away a few steps was admirable. He just looked mostly confused and slightly annoyed. Almost the same as usual, then, just with the ratios reversed. It was then that the qunari decided to bellow a forceful yet friendly invitation to arm wrestle, of all things, and Varric readied himself to hear the elf’s biting refusal.

Except it didn’t come.

“Alright,” Fenris agreed, not only amicably but with what might have been a _smile_ on his face. Varric could have sworn he’d died and gone straight to the bowels of the Fade.

“And if I win,” continued the elf, crossing his arms and tilting his head, “then you owe me drinks for the rest of this week.”

“Done deal!” laughed Bull. He settled in a chair that creaked ominously under his bulk as Fenris took the opposite seat, and extended a huge, scarred hand across the table, elbow resting on the wooden surface. Fenris did the same, locking his hand in Bull’s. His face was alight with anticipation of the challenge.

 _How much has he had to drink, anyway?_ Thought Varric as he cursed under his breath and dragged up a chair beside their table. He figured that as the instigator of this nonsense it was only fair that he judge the outcome.

“Maker’s balls,” he muttered, before raising his voice so the pair could hear him. “What the hell, let’s get this over with. On the count of three. One… two…”

As soon as he uttered the final number, Bull had Fenris’s arm at an extremely acute angle to the table. Interestingly, though, he couldn’t push any further. The stalemate lasted for a good minute, both parties grimacing and panting, biceps straining against armor. Varric was just about to call a tie when the two locked eyes, Fenris smirked, and –

_**SLAM.** _

Bull’s hand had phased clean through the table before Fenris pulled it carefully back through and set the limp arm down on the battered surface, patting it in mock consolidation. The tavern had gone completely silent. Varric, once again, was considering an excursion to the nearest Andrastian shrine. Cole looked about ready to bolt, and he was not the only one. Bull, meanwhile, sat stock still, staring at his hand in bewilderment with his mouth agape… before letting out a _roar_ of laughter that was almost enough to shake the floor. He was in hysterics, doubled over and wiping tears with one hand as he slapped his thigh with the other. If Fenris had looked confused before, he looked positively lost now.

“That, my friend,” wheezed the massive qunari, “was glorious. Truly glorious. You earned those goddamn drinks.” He rose, once again reaching out a hand, but this time with the intent of a handshake with the victor. He was greeted with a firm clasp.

“The pleasure was all mine.” Fenris’s words were warm, and he inclined his head in a friendly bow, before returning to a chuckling Hawke seated at the bar in the back. Varric could feel a headache coming on; this was too weird, even for his standards. The pang in his temples was only aggravated as Bull started shouting across the room.

“Inquisitor! Hey, Lavellan, did you see that? I got my ass handed to me… by an _elf!_ ”

***

For the next two weeks, Bull had regaled anyone who would listen with the tale of the heroic arm wrestling match and its unexpected champion. In that time, the unlikely duo had broken two small tables, either in attempts to recreate the scene or in rematches that Bull was quite insistent upon. The larger man had yet to win. Varric smiled, setting down his quill and shaking his head. He couldn’t make this shit up if he tried.


End file.
